In the past few years, Roanoke has seemingly had its hands on more money than it can spend. The building projects are a sign that Roanoke is doing well. Still, corners have been cut. Glaring problems have been ignored. Childhood memories have been destroyed. Roanoke’s Explore Park, a living museum and window into history, was closed in 2007. The Explore Park was a truly charming destination where visitors stepped back in time to a working blacksmith forge, a native village, and all the trappings of the colonial era.
Despite all the extravagant construction projects designed to attract tourists and line the pockets of building contractors, Roanoke has shown some small appreciation for natural beauty. Roanoke’s greenway has provided a bike trail along the beautiful Roanoke River which has become an instant hit with Roanokers. Development of the greenway has not, perhaps, drawn enough attention to the abysmal state of the Roanoke River. Although the river is filled with litter, industrial equipment and sewage, Roanoke does not seem interested in spending its dime on cleaning things up.
Roanoke spends a lot of money on cockamamy schemes to draw in tourists and preserving natural beauty is, at best, an afterthought.
RENTON, Wash. — Cartoons depicting corrupt behavior of the Renton City Police Department have sparked a criminal investigation and scandal among locals. However, Chief of Police Kevin Milosevich has called off all official investigations, opting instead for guidance from McCarthy-era Secret Police.
Snitches close to Milosevich indicate the Chief altered his strategy because of a surge in public sympathy for the anonymous cartoonist, known only as Mr. FiddleSticks.
Milosevich’s close friend and spiritual adviser Lorraine McWorth told sources the Police Chief was desperately attempting to underplay the negative image of wildly corrupt law enforcement while simultaneously embracing its proven effectiveness.
“He’s taking a Gestapo-like approach to the investigation, now. Threatening phone calls, letter-bombs and kidnappings are sure to get his point across where traditional methods were failing. When he gets his guy, no one will ever know. Mr. Fiddlesticks will just disappear.”
Casa Grande, Ariz.– The predominantly white inhabitants of suburban Casa Grande paraded through the streets Friday celebrating the announcement of the closing of all the Borders in the country.
Shortly before the announcement, leader of the White Brotherhood Southern Arizona Chapter Harold Smith heard rumors of Borders closing. Harold gathered his people together in a Border’s bookstore parking lot at the mall – because it is a good place to meet, he said, and they have plenty of parking today for some reason.
Harold stood on the tailgate of his pickup truck in front of a jubilant crowd at their Patriot Rally and declared, “We will finally be free from the sub-human scum a the earth – who push our health care costs higher. I mean, shit. I might not go to the dentist, but bitch, these cheeseburgers ain’t doin’ my heart no favors!” The crowd laughed and applauded.
“He’s too much!” guffawed Stevie Hargrove, 40, a toothless overalls-clad spot-welder from Tucson. Stevie clapped at every opportunity, beaming a gummy smile up to his leader, squinting through matted, sweaty hair into Harold’s silhouette against the sun.
Harold continued. “And I ain’t got no insurance because Obama wanted to force me to get it and how d’you think he’s gonna pay for that? Nigger was gon’ tax the wealthy to pay for it, that’s how; so I don’t even fucken want it!” The crowd again erupted into a frenzy of whistles and cheers just as a vein burst in Harold’s forehead, spraying crimson hate into the yawning mouths and down the throats of onlooking slack-jawed hillbillies whose thirst for identity only grew drier under the bottomless black ocean of beer-soaked convictions swirling unseen in Harold’s cold, beady eyes. A rainbow formed under the blood mist spewing forth from the man’s skull, and at the end of it sat a Confederate flag, perched in the grass, with a little sticker on its miniature flagpole that read, “Made in China.”
“And that brown uncivilized scum who keeps minimum wages artificially high by taking low pay for jobs that was originally intended for everyday Americans like me and Bo! Jobs like mopping up coffee shops, unloadin’ book trucks and washing the walls inside a the killhouses.”
At that, Smith’s crowd of white nationalists almost did not hear the news update over the ruckus of their own hate-filled fervor, as some frothed at the mouth and fell to their knees, speaking in tongues. But for those who could read, the closed captioning on the JumboTron News Report said everything [if it said anything].
A fictitious TV news program that actually broadcasts real news reported:
Because of mismanagement and glaring lack of foresight, Borders Bookstores all across America are shutting down permanently. Infamous for carrying only mainstream authors, and notorious for grossly overestimating the number of orange people willing to read Snooki’s biography – Border’s Inc. lowered literary standards faster than anyone could possibly write a book about it. Yet, here you are celebrating your racism underneath a giant flat-screen TV. Don’t act like you’re upset. Nothing changed. You don’t even read.
Dumbfounded mouth-breathers all across America stood solemnly, Budweiser in hand, making not a sound. For two minutes they stood, reflecting on their own hatred; but hatred of what, exactly, became unclear. A small child clutching a teddy bear to her chest tugged at her mother’s dress. “Mummy? You mean they ain’t relocatin’ dem filtty wetbacks?” But her mother was too grief-stricken to answer.
The only thing these rednecks hate more than non-whites is reading books.
Quietly they to stood until local pig farmer Jerry Pritchard, 48, broke the silence.
“Well,” Jerry started. “I hate books, too. I mean, shit. I like the Bible! Hell, who doesn’t. But you guys know what I mean. I mean, fucken … books, man.” Jerry’s detestation was met with groans of agreement, though many people were still visibly confused by the notion of a store specializing in the sale of bound paper.
Jerry licked his lips, picked up his courage and spoke again. “You guys still wanna…” Jerry clasped his hands together behind his back and toed a boot in a wide arc in the sand. “…Still wanna drag somebody behind my truck?”
The crowd again frothed and wriggled through the congregation of pickup trucks toward Jerry’s truck, chanting U-S-A and someone came up with “George Snorwell” which was repeated several times from within the group. Only the intellectual rednecks who got the reference laughed. The others just went along with it.
“But before we go,” Jerry continued, “I want to stop by Borders’ clearance sale. Larry th’Cable Guy’s thing is 40% off!”
In a trend that appears to be sweeping the Chronicle.SU, resident columnist and editor Old Brutus has reportedly snubbed fame and left the Internet, saying true anonymity can not be achieved online. “Fuck that NSA Octopus,” he said.
Fuck that NSA Octopus!
But anonymity is not the mysterious writer’s only motivation for leaving the Web in exchange for newspapers.
Old Brutus, who recently discovered the Deepnet, or Dark Net, shut down his laptop Tuesday, saying, “That’s it. I’ve seen the entire Internet. I’m done.”
When asked what he plans to do in the absence of 4chan and its bottomless supply of jailbait, Old Brutus told the Chronicle this:
There ain’t shit out there for me that I ain’t already seen. Child porn? Hell, I was havin’ sex before I knew what sex was. My best friend had to tell me what me and his sister had just done together. Bomb-manufacturing? Shit, the Anarchist Handbook is just copied and pasted from the annals of Chronicle.SU! DRUGS AND BITCOINS? NIGGA, I HELPED APPERSON ‘N PICKARD MAKE THE WORLD’S SUPPLY OF LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE OUT OF AN ABANDONED MISSILE SOLO TILL TWINNY OT FO’!”
Indeed, Old Brutus is a man of many worlds whose “dick don’t never go down.” Sources indicate he has regressed to the use of a 1972 IBM Selectric typewriter and pleasures himself via phone sex while looking through a window into his neighbor’s yard.
Old Brutus can be found busking on the streets of Asheville, North Carolina, like a bum, for marijuana and dollar bills – or whatever you will give him. Toenail clippings and old receipts have uses, he said, but refused to go into detail about what those uses may be.
The Chronicle remains staffed largely by psy-operatives and cyber-intelligence officials who hate your freedom. Our CIA-enhanced pseudo-intellectual framework of satirical propagandist innuendo promises to continue subverting your ideology and feeding upon the very fears which we nurture inside each and every one of you. Now read. It’s okay. Read.
Loving endorsements from the omnipotent Lebal Drocer, Inc. ensure that the Chronicle will never die, but in fact absorb all weaker publications, such as pravda.ru, anonnews.org and Roanoke Revolution.
In related news, Lebal Drocer, Inc. is proud to announce its acquisition of roanoke revolution dot com. We hope you will enjoy the bland mediocrity of a culture where depth is only a measurement of the polluted river upon which it was founded.
Nashville, Tenn.–An area Titans fan made headlines Sunday when he held up a sign reading “Jacob Tamme is a tight pussy” at a home game against the Indianapolis Colts in LP Field.
Jacob Tamme plays tight end for the Indianapolis Colts, and rejects all assertions that he is a human vagina “of any elasticity or resistance.”
Harold Buckhauer, 30, held the sign up high for at least three hours, chanting the slogan. He was beloved by his neighboring spectators, and even hailed as a hero by one man who said he believes Buckhauer’s message “needed to be said.” The man reportedly purchased Buckhauer three beers to provoke more outlandish drunken behavior, such as singing with one foot up on the back of the chair in front of him, a claim he denies.
Language scholars have jumped on the sensation to condemn the Tennessee Titans enthusiast for his gross lack of punctuation that leaders claim “contradicts” the presentation of the man’s clever idea in the context of his drunkenly-constructed sign.
Buckhauer, a plumber of 10 years’ experience, defended himself, saying, “I once punctuated a whole sentence,” but intimated his distrust of “funny” characters on a page, saying he doesn’t know why it exists anyway.
“Harold-Hymen ain’t never used no hyphen.”
When questioned about a rare, documented instance where Buckhauer attempted punctuation, he failed to recall whether it was a period or an exclamation mark he used, because memory of his mistake was immediately overshadowed by the “distinct” memory of his friends using a rhyming female anatomical word to describe him as “Harold-Hymen, who ain’t never used no hyphen.”
A string of Google searches reveals the “punctuation” to which Buckhauer referred was used on a wrestling forum, and was not punctuation at all, but capitalization. In 2009, Buckhauer wrote, “batista is purdy good but he aint gt shit on the Edge”
Cecil Dillard, pastor of Midrow Baptist Church defended Harold Buckhauer’s lifestyle, devoid of punctuation, saying, “Harry’s a trustworthy, God-fearing American who don’t need no punctuation because it ain’t holy. Punctuation is misleading, saying things that letters don’t. Now do you want your kids to read punctuation, or do you want ‘em reading the truth?” he asked, tapping the Bible.
This message is brought to you by Lebal Drocer, and:
“Now do you want your kids to read punctuation, or do you want ‘em reading the truth?”
Cuthbert, Ga.–All hell’s broke loose on the political front, the power lines are down, and the water’s shut off, forcing you to drink your own dank-smelling piss. The sound of Russki bombers dribblin on the horizon ignites terror in the eyes of your pitiful-ass family members, who cower unarmed beneath the dining room table. What do you do?
“Don’t just sit around waiting for mercy,” Cecil told the Chronicle. “Rollback the cost of freedom – and the Russians – at a Wal-Mart near you!”
Larry Cecil, who once blindly accepted whatever conditions life handed him, now takes matters into his own hands. “I used to pray to Jesus. But now I prey on the wicked,” he said, examining the horizon through a scoped rifle.
Cecil encourages concerned patriots who fear the oncoming breach of freedoms by leaked cables and Julian ASSange to “have faith” in a weapons cache and homemade napalm. Lastly, he recommends Chinese-made ammunition for its unusually high lead content.
This message is brought to you by Lebal Drocer, Incorporated.
We received this email yesterday. The subject line reads ‘Response to “No Nukes Like Good Nukes“‘ and it pretty much speaks for itself.
Your rant is back up on the June archives of RoanokeRevolution.com. I
don’t know why it disappeared, but it was not on purpose.
I know your website is intended to be funny, and I appreciate the
Onion-esque humor. However, there is an issue with misrepresentation,
especially in a small city like ours. Libel is a serious subject in
the media world, and even if you’re joking, you are not legally
allowed to misquote people, or say or imply anything untrue that could
potentially damage that person’s reputation. I hate to seem like a
killjoy, and I enjoy fun jabs as much as anyone, but if you do some
quick research on libel, you will see “No Nukes Like Good Nukes”
crossed a line. Roanoke Revolution is most definitely anti-censorship,
but an article like this that contains libel cannot legally be allowed
to remain published online.
By the way, this entire email is off the record; it is a business communication.
I could not find James Galloway’s email address, but please share my
email with him.
Thank you. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you want to discuss.
Email is often a brewing ground for misunderstood sentiments.
Because of Clarissa Clarke’s elementary writing skills and reactionary legal instincts, we can only assume she must be kind of cute, or possibly has the sexy librarian thing going on [also, remember Clarissa Explains It All? History is definitely on her side...] so we were nice enough to remove her phone number from the email, which contains a few incredulous logical fallacies.
For example, they might as well attack us for being pro-jong-il if they consider the rest of the site credible as well. So is it true that in addition to being in full support of preemptive nuclear warfare, the Roanoke Revolution staff cares more about their reputations than the poor fucks jong has kept in his prisons, guarded from knowledge of anything else?
The Roanoke Revulsion's recent confrontation with the Soviet Chronicle is best characterized as a mirror facing a mirror, looking onward into an infinite spiral of self-aggrandizement.
Emotions aren’t regularly properly expressed. But today it happened in the unlikeliest of places when a young man went on Facebook and told a girl he still likes that he still likes her.
To the outside community, she is essentially unlikable and yet, feels nothing for him. To protect the names of the dastardly, The Chronicle.SU can not even provide a description because the callousness and distatefulness of this particular girl is so distinct, any complaint about her is too revealing and she will run to the internet cops boohooing over her yeasty, smegma-coated vagina. So trust us this time, as you always do, that she’s lame to the point of unmentionable.
Of course, she would disagree, but the absence of her own voice on Facebook indicates nothing of the sort. One of her friends implied that the young man’s feelings were irrelevant, writing in a condescending tone so as to belittle him in the act of expression – a clandestine female maneuver that in many cases renders a man impotent on the spot. But in this case, the young man spoke as Stalin from the Glory Days might have spoken, by counterattacking the very ideology behind her comment’s motivation.
Speaking with poignancy, the young man described his disgust for a system of fear-based behavior patterns and built-in aversions to honesty and direct lines of communication, temporarily disabling the groupthink mentality of Facebook readers in this rippling epicenter of truth. That is to say, he did what he felt like and defended his feelings of love from an attack driven by feelings of fear itself – of oneself. No remorse.
In response, the girl’s friend publicly discussed sex and attacked the young man’s set of core values, flawed as she saw them, but failed to cite examples. Fear-based arguments are generally rooted in the unknown. In this case, she didn’t know what should be important to someone attempting to live a meaningful life and therefore could provide no argument against any other idea, publicly embarrassing herself. Following this, she admitted defeat by copying and pasting a statement from the boy’s response, [as if to kick him while "down"] but her hate-motivated actions would only serve to reinforce its meaning. But why should she care? Why should she try to hurt him by telling him that it shouldn’t hurt? Furthermore, why does actively want to publicly hurt another human being? The eyes of Fear have officially closed for one young man, and the girl you’re reading about here is the afterimage.
All because he said, “This doesn’t matter, because nothing matters, so go on about your judgmental business.”
Meanwhile, the lame girl of his admiration continues to be lame and it drives the young man crazy because seeing through the eyes of love coats the subject in the eye of the beholder with a thin layer of positive potential. This is the pain of loving.
And that a member of our society can publicly contrive his reason for feeling as sex, reprimand and reduce him for feeling emotions over it disgusts the Soviet Chronicle, which is why we, representing the Second Rise of the Soviet Union, are hereby promoting our brand new Anti-Fear Campaign in the Name of Love.
We propose to our readers, and Comrades, that if you feel something like love, then you should follow it, even if at first it is difficult coming to terms with the truth or opens you up to vulnerability. Be adventurous. To live is the reason for survival.
A Facebooker who wished to remain anonymous told the Chronicle.SU to “Think before you act, but think good, loving thoughts. This is the shortest path to a good life, and easily the most rewarding. I’m not talking about that ‘power of positive thinking’ bullshit, but about love producing love, man. It’s 2010. Are you going to be happy or not?”
St. Louis, Mo.–Twisted combinations of acid and 24-hour news have turned one local man’s life into a waking nightmare.
Steven Phelps was a system administrator for the network at Lebal Drocer Incorporated for three years before LSD destroyed his life and evolved his consciousness into a nightmarish new reality so “terrifyingly unreal” that he prays for death.
He ruthlessly climbed his way to the top of the company network, turning in fellow employees for thefts of local office supplies and software when he had to.
Shortly after receiving a promotion and a raise becoming the system administrator of Lebal Drocer, Steven took his first hit of LSD.
Acid - it's what's up
He had a nice trip, taking note of any profound insights he took from the experience. His attitude toward work changed, he became a generally nice guy, and his employees liked him after a while.
Steven tripped again, and it was nice, like the first time. He gained “many insights,” good conversation and what he described as “what the fuck moments.”
“I was staring at the clock on my computer while we played Mario Bros. 3 on emulators. Then suddenly it swelled up so big it was larger than the video game, my friend Adam, and my room put together,” Steven said adding, “Man, that was fucking crazy!”
Then Steven said as he and his friend rolled around in the floor laughing about what seemed to be the same thing, “but there was no way it was,” he realized that all things in the Universe are connected, and given the vastness of space itself, and his closeness to this person, “It stands to reason that we’re all one consciousness because my friend and I – it was like we were reading each others’ minds. And we’re just laughing our asses off about how we’re just all squished in here together, down in this little gravitational hole to the point where there’s a god damn active torsion field around us, a network of pure thought energy zapping and jiggling around the electromagnetic field.”
Steven Phelps compared the earth’s electromagnetic field to “wi-fi for thought” to which humans are adapting through evolution.
He told The Elf Wax Times he believes, “If aliens have evolved a higher level of consciousness and mental abilities, then telepathy’s in there.”
Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Steven’s mental health took a rapid descent following one incident involving LSD and TV news.
“My friends just up and left the house while I was tripping with them one day and I had nothing better to do, so I flipped the TV channel over to C-SPAN.” What happened next, Steven said, was “too painful to recall.”
Steven reported visions of Hell on Earth and said it didn’t look much different. He claimed to have seen the face of Richard Nixon, but told reporters President Bush made him seem alright. “That was three weeks ago but I’m still seeing angels who want me to come to Heaven.”
Steven Phelps, who is now permanently insane, said he saw the angels wreck an oil tanker killing eleven people along with many species of Gulf life and some “black guy who didn’t do shit to help it.” He said, “Swimming in that oil’s what we all do every day. Right now they’re killing us with petroleum. And this is what we call living.”
Steven Phelps went on to beg for “sweet merciful death” after accusing two Elf Wax reporters of being Devil One, and Devil Two.